


To the Well-Remembered Shore

by Acephalous



Series: Read from the Treasured Volume [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acephalous/pseuds/Acephalous
Summary: John and Henry find happiness on shore
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Series: Read from the Treasured Volume [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727248
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	To the Well-Remembered Shore

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to jolly_utter for the invaluable beta help.
> 
> Thanks also to isamariposa who suggested I write ‘something with Mae and Bridgens’, when I had writing energy, but absolutely no ideas for what to write about.

_1843_

Returning to shore after a long voyage always makes John feel unpleasantly off kilter. The first few days of stepping on solid ground, when he expects the roll of a ship beneath his feet, leaves him feeling betrayed by his own balance. There’s usually a difficult stretch of time as he shifts himself away from his habits at sea, recollects what it’s like to live when his time isn’t dictated by the ship’s watches and the rigid rhythms of his duties. After HMS _Gannet_ is paid off, and he and Henry take up lodgings together, John has that same old sense of trying to find his equilibrium on shore. It’s at once familiar and not, because, for the first time that he can remember, he finds himself enjoying the experience. More than discomfort, he is aware of his own profound happiness, as he works out what it means to be off-ship with Henry.

Shipboard life has its rules, and its customs, all laid out and very, very clear. John always knew where he stood, and how to behave on the _Gannet_. He was acutely aware of the lines that could not be crossed, more so as his feelings and desire for Henry had deepened. This deliberate and continuous carefulness had required a great deal of self-discipline at first, but it rapidly became ingrained, a kind of second nature that was hard to let go of. 

John hadn’t realized how hard it would be to shed the careful distance, until this evening, the sixth in their new lodgings. He sits in his chair near the fire, with Henry writing in his journal at their rickety little table. The scratch of Henry’s pen is a familiar, comforting sound, and John is full of a drowsy contentment, like a cat who has found a particularly warm sunbeam. He had been reading earlier, but hadn’t been quite able to focus on the words. John had discarded his book, in favour of watching Henry at work, admiring his furrowed brow, his ink-stained fingers. Eventually Henry stops his writing, returns his pen to the inkwell. He rereads his own words, lips moving slightly, tracing a finger across the page. Apparently satisfied, he flips the journal closed. He must feel John’s eyes on him, as he stands and stretches, because he turns to face him. 

“Did you give up on Cicero?” He asks, nodding to the abandoned book. 

“Not given up. Just thought I would give my eyes a rest.” John replies, distractedly. 

Their rooms are small and if he leans forward in his chair and reaches out he could touch Henry. It is a strange sort of urge, not driven by passion or desire, just a vague feeling of wanting to stretch out his hand and... And what? Take Henry’s hand? Put an arm around him and pull him close? John isn’t quite sure what it is he wants, so he doesn’t shift. Just sits and turns the feeling of unfocused wanting over in his mind, even as Henry steps a bit closer and reaches his hand out for the book. 

“Well then let me help you spare your eyes.” Henry says, as John passes him the book. 

Habitually, John is very careful not to let their hands touch as he lets the book go. Hadn’t even realized he was doing it until the book was out of his hand, and the moment to do otherwise was gone. Henry appears not to have noticed his indecision and settles back in his chair, finds where John had marked his place in the book, and starts to read out loud. 

***

The next day, while Henry is out, John finds a shirt that needs mending. He watches his needle move, and lets himself think about the evening before. How he hadn’t reached out to touch Henry, though he wanted to. Though Henry would have welcomed it. How it had been difficult to manage a casual touch, more difficult than if he had wanted to take Henry to bed. How touch had been so fraught with risk and freighted with meaning while they were at sea, in a way that’s hard to shake now. Perhaps then, he thinks, he should approach this way of being on shore as if he were learning a new skill. He has always been willing to learn a new thing, never minded if it took time, or hard work. Part of that was being patient if it took a little time, or you if stumbled at first, he reminds himself, as he snips the thread. 

As he’s clearing away his needle and thread, Henry returns. He’s bright eyed and the visit with his sister seems to have made him even more cheerful than usual. 

“How was Mae then?” John asks him, as Henry sheds his coat, and comes across the room. John stands as he approaches.

“She’s well,” Henry says, picking up the mended shirt, holds it up, inspecting John’s handiwork with an expression of faux-severity, as though he is judging it. “She caught me up on all the latest gossip from her fellow maids.”

John exhales, and instinctively focuses himself on keeping every muscle still. It’s an old trick that is useful when he needs to keep himself from doing something stupid, like reaching out for Henry. 

“Well I’m glad she’s keeping you abreast of all the important news.” John says, his voice not betraying how much he aches to move. But as another second ticks by he realizes that the door is locked, the curtains drawn. That there is no reason not to lean into Henry, and kiss him. So he does. Henry returns the kiss with a sigh, lifting a hand to wrap around the back of John neck, and won’t let him go without a second kiss. 

So he can find the way of this, he thinks, as the first week on shore slips into the second. He recognizes that as he does so, he is also reworking certain long-held ideas of what his life could be like. He had forced himself to accept, years ago, that there were things that a man like him could not have, and was better off not hoping for. Though with circumspection he might have a lover at times, he was not destined for the kind of companionship and affection he had longed for. Perhaps emotions that had to take root in secret and in fear could not be strong or sturdy, or perhaps he was simply not the sort of man to inspire that kind of feeling.

He could remember, still, that first spark of recognition when he had first read the Iliad, pouring over the pages by candlelight as a boy. The hope, so fragile he could barely hold onto it, that perhaps he was not as unnatural and separate from all things good in the world as he had feared. A sudden, and desperate comfort, that perhaps he was not doomed to be perpetually alone, in the way he had dreaded, when he had first realized that the sins that his father sometimes preached about from the pulpit resided in him. 

And he could remember as well, the painful slow realization that while he might not be doomed to be alone, he might still be fated to a perpetual loneliness. But time had eroded acute pains to easier ones, and other than in his youth, he had never considered himself unhappy. After all, he had his books and his work. He had travelled more of the world than most could dream of, seen places that seemed straight from legend: Greece, the shores of Africa, and of India. It was a good life, all together. And everyone has their sorrows and their joys, their disappointments and their satisfactions. So he had been content as he was, with a hard won, but cherished contentment. 

And then he had met Henry Peglar, bright eyed and clever, soft spoken and gentle, with a poet’s thoughts. Before he had entirely realized it, that familiar loneliness had vanished from him, replaced with friendship, and he had counted himself so very lucky. Then somehow, there had been love as well, the kind of love he had had thought he could not have. And he had gotten everything he had wanted, somehow, once he stopped looking or hoping for it.

However welcome that shift is, it’s still work to let those old ideas and expectations about his life go, like a snarled thread that needs to be unknotted, and made to lie smooth. Untangling it isn’t unpleasant work, but it takes time nonetheless. It hadn’t occurred to him that Henry might also be finding himself having to work at the same thing. Henry is always so quick on anything new, takes a moment to weigh things faster than John ever can, and then acts, no hesitation or second guessing. So he hadn’t thought that Henry might have to find his way around the newness of being on shore too. 

It’s morning and they both dodge around one another with practiced ease, careful not to touch even in the limited space. They’ve managed not to touch in much narrower quarters aboard ship before, and its second nature, now. Henry slips by John to lay bread and an end of cheese on the table, and John automatically twists out of his way, as he reaches for the teacups in the cupboard. As Henry sits at the table, John brings the cups to the table, pours tea into them. He has no sooner put the pot down, then he almost jumps out of his skin, when Henry lays his fingers lightly on the back of John’s hand. John looks at him, but Henry isn’t looking at him. Instead he’s watching his own fingers, tracing a nonsensical pattern on John’s hand, face very serious. Then his expression changes and he meets John’s gaze with a spark of delight in his eyes, keeping his hand there, while he picks up his teacup.

***

After they’d been on shore nearly a month, Henry had returned from one of his visits to his sister, and had told John that Mae wanted to meet him. John’s first instinct had been to refuse, as he’s not quite sure why Mae would want to meet him, or that he would manage to do anything other than bore her. But Henry had been so utterly sincere as he had made the invitation, and John hadn’t the heart to say no. 

So now he sits beside Henry at the table in the front parlour of the boarding house Mae rooms in, with John’s nerves spiking, in a way that he both recognizes as faintly ridiculous, and is completely unable to prevent. Henry seems to agree that his nervousness is ridiculous, given the occasional amused looks he is throwing in John’s direction.

When Mae comes down to join them it is immediately apparent that she shares her brother’s air of good cheer and friendliness. More surprisingly, she seems delighted to meet John, for reasons that aren’t entirely clear to him. The opening of the conversation had been somewhat disconcerting, as Mae, grinning at him with a smile that was very like her brother’s, insisted they call one another by their first names, then announced that she’d heard ever so much about him. 

That had caused Henry to bury his head in his hands, and say, with something like despair, “Mae, you promised…”

“I promised to be nice.” Mae said cheerfully, “But I refused to promise not to embarrass you, as I’m sure you recall.”

John lets out a laugh, which she seemed to take as encouragement, “See Henry? I don’t know what you were worried about.” She swings her attention back to John. “Henry told me you had been to Greece. Is it true there are ruins on every hillside there?”

John blinks, then does his best to answer her, as she peppers him with questions. After a while Henry lifts his head from his hands, cautiously, then relaxes, smiling at the two of them.

When it’s time for them to take their leave, Henry rises to gather their coats. Mae takes the opportunity to say to John intently, “Thank you. For helping him with the letters. I miss him when he’s gone, the letters helped.”

John offers her a nod, as behind them Henry says, “Leave the poor man alone Mae, you’ve already talked his ear off.” 

Out on the street, as they walk home, Henry tilts a look up at him. His expression is a little guarded. John hastens to set his mind at ease, although he doesn’t really understand why his opinion should matter in this: “She’s very charming. And she cares for you a great deal. I’m glad you have family like that to return to.”

Henry beams back at him.

***

A month later, over tea at Mae’s, on her afternoon off, Henry is talking about watching a pod of whales frolic in the waves in the Gulf of Guinea. Hands moving, he tries to explain the shape their bodies had made as they arched up into the air.

Mae says: “I haven’t heard about that.”

John, who knows the kinds of things that catch Henry’s fancy is surprised. “No mention in a letter?” he asks. 

Mae starts to laugh. “Have I not told you about what passed for a letter from Henry before he met you? Just wait a moment.” And she’s off, returning a few moments later clutching a small box in her hands. 

Henry sighs. “Mae, there’s no need to show him those.”

She ignores him and opens the box, revealing a neat set of correspondence. She leafs through them, then half pulls one out. 

John can’t quite contain his delight at this opportunity to glimpse a bit of Henry from before he met him. They’ve talked about where he’s been before, but there’s something very different about words written in the moment. There’s something warm and comforting about the fact that those words were brought to England, and kept safe and cherished, while Henry was at sea. And that years later, John can read them, and maybe know Henry a little better. 

John takes the first letter, written in a blocky, awkward hand of whoever Henry had had transcribe his words. But the words themselves are sparse, and utterly without character: “In Lagos. All well. Miss you.” John frowns and finds another letter. The same text, but for a different port. He looks back and forth between the two letters and starts to laugh. 

“Did you just dictate the same letter every time you came to a new port? The whole time you were at sea? This one is from Gibraltar. You have a lot to say about Gibraltar, Henry, I’ve heard you say it.”

Henry, who is blushing, says “I didn’t like to take up someone’s time to write for me. I wasn’t going to ask a busy man to write down all the thoughts in my head. Everyone had their own work to get on with.” 

Mae is shaking with laughter, “That didn’t stop you on the _Gannet_. Did John not have his own work to do then?”

Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Henry shrug, a little stiffly.

John, who is still thumbing through the letters, says “It wasn’t as though I found listening to Henry a hardship.” He’s come to more recent letters now, and recognizes his own hand, penning Henry’s words. It makes him smile. “I was always more than happy to do it.”

“Are those the ones from the _Gannet_?” Mae asks, still giggling “Well don’t waste your time on those early ones, you know what they say, you wrote them for him. You should look at the ones from later, when Henry was writing for himself.”

Henry says, a bit hastily, “No, no need for that.” 

His response makes Mae laugh harder. Henry takes the box from John, and the letter he was holding. John lets it go without argument. Henry snaps the lid of the box firmly and won’t quite meet John’s eye, as he pushes the box back towards Mae.

After they’ve returned home, John, who’s been turning Henry’s reaction over in his head, says carefully, “You needn’t worry about what you wrote in those letters. I wouldn’t hold it against you. I know how I seem, a bookish fool.” 

Henry, finishes hanging his coat and steps over to John, standing very close. There’s a light of laughter in his eyes. “Oh, you know how you seem, do you? Well then you won’t be surprised that I wrote whole pages that were all about you, one way or another. The books you read to me, what you thought about everything. It’s embarrassing.”

John searches Henry’s face for insincerity, doesn’t find any. Henry blushes at the scrutiny, and buries his face against John’s shoulder.

Henry, voice a little muffled against John’s shirt, says, “Don’t look at me like that. You were very patient and kind. And you listened to me.”

John, replies, a bit baffled: “Why wouldn’t I listen to you, when you have so much to say?”

Henry looks back up at him, eyes shining. “Well no one had listened to me before. Not like that.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Look, if you want me to tell you I love you, I will, but I’d rather not have you reading my stumbling way towards realizing that.”

John chuckles. Says, “Tell me you love me.”

Henry replies very seriously, like he’s telling a great secret. “John Bridgens. I love you.” Then with a face cracking into a grin, “Please promise you won’t let Mae show you those letters.”

John lifts one of his hands to cradle Henry’s cheek: “I’ve told you how I feel. ‘How do I love thee? /Let me count the ways. /I love thee to the depth and breadth and height.’ But that promise I will not make.”

Henry shoves him away playfully, laughing, then reels him back in, leaning up for a kiss.

***

_1845_

Before they make their way to Greenhithe, before they board the ships in search of the Passage, they meet Mae for a last visit. John’s arrived before Henry. Mae looks distracted while they wait for him, and a little sad. She visibly draws herself back together when she catches John’s gaze, puts on a smile. 

John says, “You must miss him when he’s gone.”

Mae shrugs, losing the smile. “Yes, of course I do. But Henry’s not really made to stay on shore, is he?” 

“No. He’s not.” John agrees. 

“Well, I’ve known that since I was a child. Just have to be glad when he’s here. He’ll write me while he’s gone.”

John says, “Of course he will.”

Mae’s smile is back, though John isn’t quite sure how much of it is real, and how much not. “And once you’re back, you can both tell me all about the great Arctic expanse. What the ice looks like. And the lights in the sky. And then all about the Pacific.”

John opens his mouth to reply, but there’s a knock on the door, signalling Henry’s arrival. 

“Come on, John,” Mae says, “don’t be dreary. You’re off on a grand adventure.”

***

_1849_

As he disembarks onto the London dock, John has a sudden moment of terrible unreality, like their escape is some kind of cruel dream. Beside him Henry jostles into his side, a movement calculated to look like an accident, and murmurs: “This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,” low enough that no one else can hear. It snaps John back to himself, and he takes a breath, and smiles at Henry. Around them the rest of the surviving crew are being lost into the crowd, greeted by family and friends. 

Suddenly there’s a cry of “Henry!” from the crowd, and Mae is there, throwing herself at Henry with enough force to make him stagger. She’s crying into his shoulder, and clinging to him like she thinks he might vanish. 

John stands back awkwardly, feeling like an intruder, while Henry embraces his sister, trying not interrupt the reunion. When they draw apart, John can see that Henry’s cheeks are wet. Mae turns to John next and reaches out. Embraces him too, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It takes him off guard, but he returns the embrace gingerly. 

“Welcome home,” she says, when she lets him go, wiping tears from her face.

There’s a brief bit of awkwardness as Mae’s new husband steps forward. He introduces himself and tells Henry he can stay with them. Mae tilts an apologetic glance at John, says, “I’m sorry, we have hardly any room.”

He smiles at her, and says, “Sorry for what? You’re hardly going to have every returning sailor in your home.” Beside him Henry has an unhappy set to his jaw, and John keeps talking before he can turn stubborn. “I’ll find somewhere to stay, and I’ll visit in a few days.” In his head he is frantically trying to calculate the appropriate amount of time before he can visit. What is the normal amount of interest to show for a sick friend and shipmate? He’s lost all practice at this. 

Mae says, very firmly, “You’ll come and visit tomorrow,” and tells him the address. 

John thanks her. He gives Henry a look that he hopes conveys something of what he’d like to say if he weren’t in earshot of Henry’s family, and what feels like half the city gathered on the dock. Shouldering the bag of his scant belongs, he walks away, alone, into the overwhelming clamour of London. 

***

In the dismal little room he rents for the night, John dreams. In his dream he wakes, in a sack on the shale, and knows that the rescue and everything that came after was the dream. It’s a painfully familiar reality: another day of staggering forward trying to keep men alive, or trying to comfort them as they die, and failing utterly on both counts. He reaches for Henry, the habit of this long terrible march, to wake him as gently as he can. But the body beside him is cold and breathless, and there’s a drawn-out moment of such piercing grief that it’s almost physical pain.

It jolts him to wakefulness, sitting up and gasping for breath. The room is small, but it couldn’t be further from the canvas tent he half expects to see. Henry is safe, at Mae’s, sleeping. John knows it, but he still has to repeat it over and over to try to make himself believe it, while the rapid pace of his heartbeat gradually slows. He doesn’t think he can quite bear closing his eyes again, so he lights a lamp, while his mind plays and replays again those last few despairing days. Henry barely on his feet, eyes not quite focused. And John had known what it meant, had watched the end of enough of the men, as they spent the last of their strength. Thinks again, as he had then, _please just a few more miles further, love. Don’t leave me alone just yet_.

He tries to gather himself back to the present. _We were rescued, he’s safe, he’s sleeping_ , he tells himself. But the idea of safety seems wildly unlikely in the dark, and he can’t convince himself its true. Not when the room’s walls, and noise of the London street below, loud even at this hour, seem strange and unreal, and Henry is not near him. 

***

The day after, John finds his way to the address Mae had given him. He had some luck this morning, and had found a room to let a short walk away. He had barely looked at the cramped garret, other than to ascertain that it was in fact marginally larger than the amount of room he had in his ship’s berth, and therefore liveable. 

The address brings John to a block of flats: strung laundry lines, and children shrieking in the street. Currents of life and people he does not know, so many people. It all seems very strange and alien to him. He makes his way up to the second story, knocks on the door. Mae answers it, wearing an apron. She greets him happily, and ushers him inside. The flat has only a small one main room serving as sitting room and kitchen, but clean and comforting. Henry is there, perking up at the sign of John. Mae shepherds him inside, and then goes to put the kettle on for tea, puttering noisily at the stove. John sits by Henry, forgets himself, and grabs for Henry’s hand, holds on too hard. Believes again, for the first time since his dream the night before that Henry is alive and safe. There’s a shift in the air as they both remember themselves. He and Henry both look at Mae’s back for a moment, but she is utterly engrossed in her task. John forces himself to pull his hand away. For a moment Henry clings to John’s hand, before letting go, and folds his hands in his lap.

After a moment Henry says, “It’s good to see you.” It’s stilted and awkward, voice heavy with too many things unsaid. “You found a place for the night?”

“Yes,” John says. By the stove, Mae is assembling a tray of teacups and a teapot with an amount of banging and rattling that is slightly alarming. “And a room to let this morning. It’s near. Just a few minutes’ walk.”

Henry nods. He’s frowning, face pinched and unhappy.

“Henry,” John says quietly, “is something wrong?”

Henry doesn’t answer at first, then finally says, “I missed you. I’m glad to be here, I just…” His fingers flex, but he keeps his hands in his lap. 

“It wasn’t even a day.” John replies. Henry’s mouth twists, miserably. 

John flinches at his own clumsy words. He feels like he’s lost the flow of this, of how to speak to Henry and not say what he means, speak to him safely when other ears can overhear. He adds, voice very low, “I missed you too. But I’m just around the corner.”

There’s a clatter of teacups and saucers, as Mae turns back from the little kitchen, and John realizes he’s leaned a little too close to Henry, and straightens up sharply. 

Mae sets the tea down in front of them. John thanks her. They converse quietly for a while, but both John and Mae are watching Henry, who’s still weak and recovering, and is now half nodding off in his seat. After a while John smiles ruefully, and gets up to take his leave. It snaps Henry back to wakefulness, and he offers to walk him back. 

“Stay Henry, get some rest.” He says gently. 

Mae adds: “John will be back in time for dinner tomorrow, won’t you, John?” 

And there’s nothing to say to that, except to agree and promise not to be late. 

***

Several days later, John makes his way to Mae’s flat for his daily visit. There’s a cold miserable rain sheeting down, and John is almost at the building when he sees Mae, bundled up against the wet. She sees John and waves, basket over one arm. 

“He fell asleep by the fire,” she confides, when she gets close, “so I slipped out to get some food before he could wake up and insist on coming out in this downpour.”

John smiles, and takes the basket from her. “Maybe we can get back before he wakes.”

They walk in silence, Mae seems distracted and John’s happy to keep the peace. In the rain the streets are all but deserted, which makes him feel more comfortable, not yet used to the sheer number of people in the city. It’s not until the trip back, with the basket heavy on John’s arm, that Mae breaks the silence. “Are you all right, John?” 

He startles and looks at her. “Once I’m inside and dry, I will be.”

“I don’t mean right this instant. I mean… it’s just that you seem tired, whenever I see you. And you’re still too thin. I worry about you.”

It hadn’t occurred to John that that there was anyone other than Henry who would spare a thought for his well-being or his health. It’s a nice feeling, a warm glow. “I’ll be fine, Mae. Just adjusting. We’ve only been back a few weeks.”

“Well,” Mae says, “it’ll be easier on both of you when you’re lodging together again.”

John hesitates, the feeling of warmth fading into the beginning of dread, a prickle of unease. He and Henry haven’t discussed a change of lodging, and John is not going to hurry Henry away from being able to recover with his sister near. When he’s ready, they will, of course. But Mae assuming that they will without discussion worries him.

“We haven’t talked of any plans for lodgings.”

Mae seems to misunderstand. “Oh, I’m not hurrying you. He can stay at mine as long as he likes. I suppose I hoped you’d find some lodgings because it would mean that the two of weren’t going to find some ship to sail away on if I let you out of my sight.”

John blinks at that. Again, that flicker of disquiet. There’s something very dangerous about the way she’s conflating his plans with Henry’s. Dangerous because she’s right. “We’re neither of us in any shape for a voyage any time soon.”

“But once you’re both well again? Then what?” She asks. “Back to sea?”

He hedges. “I can’t really speak for us both. I don’t know what Henry’s planning. We just returned. It won’t be soon.” 

“Not soon. But later, will you two go?” She presses.

John hesitates again. The truth rises in his mind, but he’s careful not to give it voice, and only thinks to himself: _‘Whatever happens, both will face one danger, / find one safety’_ Anything short of going wherever Henry goes isn’t worth considering, hasn’t been for a long time. Since their time on the _Gannet_. Not that he knows what Henry might be planning for the future. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask, as it’s still far too early, and they’re both still reeling from the good fortune of their survival and return. “You should ask Henry what his plans are,” John says finally. “But it’ll be a good long while before he goes anywhere.”

Mae makes a noise of agreement. Before John can be relieved at dodging his way through the fraught conversation, she continues, “It’s just that he’s been leaving for as long as I can remember. I was very young, the first time he left, but I remember I was convinced he was never coming back. I must have heard stories of shipwrecks or sea-monsters or the like. I was able to set that fear aside as I got older. But then these last years, with no word. I couldn’t even look at a map to try to imagine where you were. You might as well have fallen off the edge of the earth. I remembered those childish fears. And I thought, I was right, as a girl. I just had the timing wrong.” She takes an unsteady breath. “I know it’s foolish, but I can’t escape the feeling that any moment he’s going to tell me all about the new adventure he’s going to vanish on. But of course he has to go: it makes him happy to be at sea.”

John adjusts the basket of groceries on his arm. “I would tell you if I knew his plans, Mae. But if he hasn’t mentioned anything, it’s because he hasn’t thought of leaving yet. It won’t be soon, I can tell you that. And I don’t think he’s interested in another voyage that has any particular dangers. But you’re right, the sea is what makes him happy.”

“Does it make you happy?” Mae asks.

John smiles. “It does. I’ve been so many places, seen so many things. I could have stayed my whole life within earshot of the village church-bells, but there wasn’t much space to think there. I think it would have driven me mad. And there never was much for me, on shore. No one to miss me when I was away, no one to return to.” 

“Never _was_ much on shore,” Mae repeats, lifting her skirts to step over a puddle. “And now?”

John hesitates again, unsure of how to say half the truth, which is that he is not much interested in going to sea again, but that nothing will keep him from Henry, and there is nothing that he would not endure to make Henry happy. He settles for something that is true, as far as it goes. “In the right circumstance? I would sail again.”

Mae seems dissatisfied with the answer, making a frustrated noise. They walk in silence for a bit, with just the sound of the rain and their footsteps in the deserted street, before she says, “I’m sorry there isn’t enough room for you to stay with us.” 

“I wouldn’t impose on you like that. You’re far too kind to your brother’s old shipmate as it is.”

Mae makes a frustrated noise. “Yes, his friend and shipmate.” There’s an uncharacteristic bite of sarcasm in her voice. 

John feels his heart start to beat faster, a prickle of sweat on his palms. The conversation has suddenly veered back towards dangerous ground, and he’s not quite sure how it happened, or how to stop it. And she’s still talking.

“I don’t know if you know what it was like, when news reached us about survivors of the expedition. There were no names in the papers, not at first. There was a terribly slow trickle of news. Just rumours, and then numbers of survivors It was so few, and I thought, those odds are too long, it would be too much to hope that my loved ones managed to make it out. And I thought I would tear my hair out waiting for the list of names, just so I could let go of the last of my hope, and I kept looking in the newspapers for it, day after day. But then finally, one of the papers mentioned something about a steward from Erebus. And I thought, oh please let that be John. Because I knew if it was you, then Henry was alright as well.”

John keeps his silence. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say to that, that wouldn’t be read as some kind of confession.

“You know, I never did show you those old letters he wrote to me from the _Gannet_ ,” she says, when it’s clear he isn’t going to respond, “When he started to write me himself. Before that, well, I suppose you wrote those letters for him, so you know what they were like. The sea, and sky, and the sea again. And then he started writing for himself, and I suppose he said more when you wouldn’t see it. So it was John said this, and John thinks that, and all the world is so wide, there’s so much more in it than I thought, and think of all the things just waiting to be known. It was new. Something different. And I didn’t really put together why at the time. But then later, when you were on shore, I saw how you looked at each other.”

John feels those words like a blow. Here it is, the moment he’s been expecting and fearing for most of his adult life. Discovery, and no real way to hide or deny it. He tries to prepare himself for whatever cruelty or anger is coming, and takes a bit of comfort in the fact that she won’t want to hurt Henry, he’s her family. Which, of course, is why they’re having this conversation away from the flat, he realizes. 

He must have made a sound, because Mae, who’s been staring straight ahead as she speaks, turns to look at him, then stops and turns to John. They stand there on the deserted street, in the rain, facing one another. He sets his shoulders, like he’s bracing for a blow. Meets her eyes. 

But she doesn’t look angry, or disgusted, or anything other than concerned. “John,” she says very softly, like she’s soothing a frightened child, or a skittish horse. “John, I only meant that every word made it clear just how happy he was, and then, when he was back on shore, I could see why. Because of…”

John flinches. Her words aren’t angry or accusatory, but it still feels like being wounded to the bone, and he’s waiting for the conversation to turn ugly.

She makes a small frustrated sound. “I’ve only ever wanted him to be happy, John. I want you both to be happy. Whether you’re on shore, or you go back to sea. I wanted to make sure you knew that.”

John doesn’t have an answer to that, just stares at her, clutching the grocery basket. No words, no quotation or line of verse can help him here. 

She sighs, rubs at her eyes with one hand. “Never mind, come on, let’s get back. I need to get started on dinner. And Henry will never forgive me if you catch a chill out here because I’m chattering at you.”

***

John reels from the conversation with Mae for days after, walks carefully around her when he visits, not quite able to throw off the feeling of panic. Turning the conversation in his mind over and over again, not quite able to understand what she had meant by it. 

On the third day, Henry grabs his coat the moment John walks in the door, calls to Mae, “John and I are going for a drink.”

John follows him down the street to nearby pub, they find a table near the back where the cover of the other patrons’ noise means they can speak without being overheard. They sit and drink in silence for a while.

“Well?” Henry says finally, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

John hunches his shoulders for a moment, then exhales, and says miserably, “Mae knows.”

“Knows what?” Henry asks after a few moments of silence.

“About us,” John says, lowering his voice, glancing at Henry’s face. 

Henry looks confused, but says calmly, “She probably does. We’ve hardly been apart since ’39. We lived together for years. We joined the Discovery Service together.” His expression shifts from confusion to worry. “Did she say something to you?”

John nods, turns Mae’s words over in his mind, returns to the part that he cannot quite understand. “She said she wanted us to be happy.”

Henry takes that in with a shrug, concern lifting from his face. 

“Henry!” John hisses at him, when he says nothing further.

Henry spreads his hands, bemused by John’s agitation, “Alright. Mae definitely knows.” He starts to take a drink, but must see the panic that’s rising in John again, because he sets it down again, and says gently, “She wants us to be happy. Of course she does, she’d never wish us any harm.”

“She’d never wish _you_ any harm. You’re her family.” John says, through gritted teeth. “I’m just…I shouldn’t matter to her.”

Henry’s face has gone intent with worry. “Of course you matter, you’re her family too. I thought you knew that?”

John has a denial on his tongue, but he stops because he is remembering Mae years ago bringing out that treasured box of Henry’s letters, and showing them to John without hesitation. He is remembering all the times she’d teased Henry, and then more gently, joked with John, how she always looked proud of herself when she’d made him laugh. Thinks of their return, of how she had embraced him on the dock, of the days after, the way she’d fussed at him and Henry both to eat, to sit nearer the fire. Thinks of the other day in the rain, the way she had said she wanted happiness for them, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

John feels something loosen in his chest, some tangled thread in him unknotting and pulling smooth. Puts his head in his hands, and starts to laugh. After a moment, Henry kicks him under the table. Says, “John?” with concern.

John stops laughing and wipes his eyes. “I suppose you’re right. I am family. Forgive me, I hadn’t realized.”

***

_1850_

From the back of the shop, John is carefully unpacking their first shipments of books. Henry helps him for a while, before jostling him with an elbow, laughing at him for being slow. “They’re not glass, John. And if you keep looking through all of them we’ll never be able to open.” He goes to the front of the shop, carrying an armful of books, to start to fill the waiting shelves. 

John hears a knock from the locked front door, then the sound of Henry opening it, and Mae’s cheerful voice. He sets down the volume he was holding, and comes out into the front of the shop. Mae’s turning in a slow circle, taking in the empty cases waiting for books, the few shelves starting to be filled, the warm light, the counter, the gleaming till, while Henry grins proudly. 

“I brought you lunch, since I’m sure you were working hard.” She says happily. “This all looks wonderful.”

They take their lunch in the flat upstairs, where they’ve managed to assemble a bare minimum of furniture. Mae has brought sandwiches and ale. They have enough plates for three, but they only have two glasses, so Henry ends up drinking from a teacup. 

“Well, I have to confess,” Mae says after they’ve eaten, “I didn’t really believe it was real until now.”

Henry shoots her a bemused look. “Of course it’s real. It’s been real the whole time. You’ve been here before.”

“I was here when it was an empty grocer’s shop. That was very different. You have shelves, and a till, and books now. Nowhere to sail off to. You’re staying here.” Mae says, then leans forward, grabs Henry’s chin and stares at him until he meets her eyes. “And you’re happy.”

Henry bats her hand away. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be with all this?” And he makes a gesture that encompasses the shop, his sister, John. He catches John’s eye and smiles at him, not disguising the feelings on his face. 

John returns the look for a long moment. Then, raising his glass towards Mae, says, “To the day we never thought we’d see: Henry Peglar, happy and content to stay on shore.”

She clinks her glass against his. “And to John Bridgens. The man who makes him so.” John smiles at her and catches Henry’s hand in his. 

Beside him, Henry gives a delighted laugh and raises his cup as well. “To John Bridgens,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> John quotes from ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese 43’ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. He shouldn’t be, because it wasn’t published yet, but he is.
> 
> Returning to England, Henry quotes from Shakespeare’s ‘Richard II’
> 
> During the conversation with Mae, John quotes from Virgil’s ‘The Aeneid’ to himself.


End file.
